


after all these years

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Past Character Death, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan has unfinished business in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after all these years

Crossing the road behind a dingy brown Fiat, Joan’s dark patent heels clicked against the asphalt as she walked toward the cemetery entrance. The weathered, Romanesque stone arch towered over the sloping hills and the small graves to the east, on her right. They stretched out across the landscape for so long she couldn’t tell where the stones ended and the skyline began.

She let out a deep breath as she passed through the colonnade, and shifted the paper-wrapped bouquet in her left arm so its thorns didn't snag her black wool coat, repeating the directions to herself under her breath. _Behind the chapel, to the west._ Eventually, grand monuments gave way to small stones that dotted the grass in erratic patterns, like wildflowers in a field, and after rechecking her hand-drawn map, she walked a little further and found herself in a small corner of the park, standing in front of an old friend.

The grass around his plot was thick and green, and its position near the fence and the glen of trees meant it was less crowded than the others. Even in the dim morning sunlight, the spot looked quaint, almost peaceful. Joan closed her eyes, very briefly, and opened them again, steeling herself to speak.

“Hi.”

Her voice wobbled. She swallowed the lump that was already forming in her throat, and quickly lowered the flowers that were balanced in the crook of her arm, leaning them gently against the granite headstone. Lush red roses with their buds in full bloom almost covered the dates engraved below his name. _August 24, 1915 – February 18, 1967._ Under the green cellophane, the corner of a small envelope peeked out from behind the bouquet. Hotel stationery.

“Didn’t throw them at you this time,” she whispered, and sighed out a noise that was supposed to be a laugh. “I don’t know if you got the ones I sent before.”

All she remembered from that terrible week was how much she’d cried—and all she knew about his funeral came from a single phone call: the London telephone number she’d found in the back of his employee file, which she’d scribbled on the back of a rolodex card in shaky, almost illegible handwriting.

_I’m very sorry, madam. The family has requested a private service._

_Please, can you—just tell me where he’ll be buried_. Joan had muffled a sob with her balled-up handkerchief, sitting on the floor of her darkened kitchen, listening to the small clock over the oven tick out each second like a little time bomb. _He’s—_ she bit her tongue to keep from saying the word _important. He was a friend. Please. I don’t want him to think that we just—forgot._

The answer had come after almost ten seconds of silence; Joan had pressed the back of her hand against her trembling mouth to keep herself composed.

_Kensal Green. The Anglican section, behind the chapel._

“Well.” She felt stupid because she’d come all this way—thought about doing this for years, first in the abstract and then with a steely certainty—and now she didn’t know how to talk to him, or what to say first. “It’s certainly not Manhattan, but at least it’s quiet.”

Little flashes of memory burst into her mind like cheap fireworks: the red and blue-checked houndstooth of his favorite vest, the way his eyebrow quirked up when he smiled, the sloping loops of his distinctive handwriting. The way he’d blushed after he kissed her. She could hardly remember what it felt like, now.

Joan glanced down at the headstone again, the sun flashing and winking at her as it came out from behind the clouds, and reflected off the row of stones beside him. Shielding her face with a hand, she studied the inscription—name, birthday, death day—oh, god, was that it? She kept scanning the face of the stone for words that weren’t there, some kind of epitaph that spoke to the deep character of the steady, kind man she had known. _Loving father_ or _beloved brother_ —something. Anything.

Nothing. Jesus.

Tears pricked the corner of her eyes again, and this time she just let them fall, stepping around the grave to place a hand against the flat top of the marker, fingers playing over the rounded edge in a nervous gesture. It was cold to the touch, as cold as his bluish hands had been under hers, the day it happened. They hadn’t wanted her to see his body, but she knew she had to look, because she was never going to see him again. She had to face it.

_Face grey. Ligature marks purplish-blue against pale skin. Full suit and tie._

_Flushed and breathless, blue eyes searing into hers—wanting, waiting._

Taking a shuddering breath, Joan tried to picture something other than the haunted look on his face, the last day she saw him alive.

_Talk to him. This is why you came._

The words were halting and too quiet, even with the sound of the birds in the trees and the rest of the city in the distance. “I’m—I’m here for a few days. My company has business in London, so we turned it into a kind of working vacation. Kevin’s with me, too.” She took another breath. “He plays baseball—and he’s got your pennant. The Mets are his favorite team.”

_Remember the smile on your face when you held him?_

The face of the headstone was dirty against her palm, covered with a faint, scaly film. Water or dirt or some kind of grimy residue. Joan was dusting it off with her bare fingers before she could think about it, making sure the engraved letters of his name stood out bold against the rock.

Someone should keep it clean. Someone should take care of him.

“You should be here,” she whispered.

_I miss you._

The snap-crack of a branch breaking under someone’s foot made her spin to look, and when she turned, she saw a tow-headed man standing a few feet away, hidden in the nearby glade of trees that shaded the graves just beside the fence. He was tall and skinny, in a black leather jacket, faded t-shirt, and frayed jeans, and as he walked closer, she noticed his pale skin was a little freckled, and his red-blonde hair was shaggy and unstyled. Silver gleamed in the shell of his right ear—bars and studs that caught the faint sunlight.

Joan yanked her hand away from Lane’s headstone, and straightened up, fear bubbling into her throat. _You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have done this._ Her hand throbbed, and when she glanced down at her palm, she saw that a tiny red line had formed on the bottom of her third finger, skin cracked open so neatly it was like it had been split by the dry February air, and not by the stone itself. _What are men compared to rocks and mountains?_

“You’re here—for Dad?”

Shock quieted his words as he glanced from her to the headstone, brow furrowed in confusion.

Joan gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was just leaving.”

“No, wait. Please. I didn’t mean to—nobody else visits.”

Guilt fluttered in Joan’s chest as he spoke.

“Just—just me and my uncle.”

He ran a hand through his hair, but it wasn’t until he averted his gaze that she saw his father in him, Lane’s combination of hesitance and yearning swirling in his son’s taut expression.

Joan bit back the sob that hovered on her lips. Even in death, Lane was alone. It was pathetic; it was awful. She could still hear his voice in her head, sometimes, if she concentrated deeply enough, soft baritone so comforting, cutting through the heavy silences that had permeated that office. _A five percent stake would provide for a mother and her child for a lifetime._

“Well, I just—wanted to say hello.” She offered Nigel another weak smile, worse than the last. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

_It’s my fault. I should have seen it; I should have known he wasn’t fine._

“Please, don’t go. Just—tell me your name?”

“Nigel—”

His eyes widened, and he stepped closer. She suppressed a curse.

“You—you know who I am?”

The hope in his voice was physically painful to her, but she shoved down the sympathy that pulsed in her chest.

“I—I can’t,” she croaked out finally, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait, please—”

Joan’s hands shook too much to push his hand away from her arm, but her legs were quick. She sped up her walk until she was practically running, not turning around until she was inside the underground station and saw no one but strangers; not daring to breathe until she hit the musty, metallic heat of the southbound platform and slumped backwards into the nearest bench, with weak legs and a fast-beating heart, her hand clutching the right lapel of her coat.

_Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me._

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did listen to "Hello" a bazillion times after it came out, and yes, it did make me want to write angsty shipping fic. Don't judge me! XP
> 
> But in fairness, I always thought that Joan would a) try to see London one day, because Lane had told her so much about it, and b) after he died, would have sent flowers to the memorial and/or would try to visit his grave, just once.
> 
> "What are men compared to rocks and mountains?" is from Pride and Prejudice.


End file.
